A Shift in the Universe

Amaya strums on her guitar, the thin wires rubbing her calloused fingers. She closes her eyes and repositions herself on her bedroom floor. She knows the tune so well that she could play it from memory. It is a soft song with only a few lyrics, which she admittedly forgot a long time ago. Now, she only remembers the sorrowful sound of each chord.

When Amaya was a little girl, her grandmother would always tell her to come over on Saturdays for tea. As they ate small pastries and drank bitter tea, Nana would tell Amaya all about her many great loves, and all the while, the same tinkling tune would play on the ancient record player. Nana has had exactly twelve true loves in her eighty-one years. Amaya, at thirteen years old, has only had two: guitar and Nana.

The sweet music fills Amaya’s bedroom as she continues playing, the guitar an extension of her body and the music her steady breaths. Her soul feels lighter, but the darkness still aches in her stomach. So she opens her dark eyes and plays louder. She continues to play through the end of the song, and then she starts from the beginning again. Her fingers fly over her guitar, which has been littered with intricate designs over the years. No matter her mood--gleeful, despondent, frightened, bored--Amaya strums her guitar. When she’s uninspired to play, she paints on her guitar.

Louder and louder, the notes flood Amaya’s a room and eventually her whole house. Amaya’s parents hate when she plays her song so loudly. Nana has always loved to hear Amaya’s skill, the louder the better.

Amaya ends the song for the third time and stops playing. Her fingers are sore. Usually, she can play for hours without any discomfort, but there’s been a “shift in the universe,” as Nana would say. She was always telling Amaya all sorts of useful things like that. When the Amaya would get upset about learning a difficult song on the guitar, Nana would tell her, “Love takes work, but guitar will always be your first, and first loves will always stay alive.” She’s also told Amaya that “the first thing you do when chaos breaks loose is grab and many children as you can and run”, and that “the most important feature of a man is in his pants, but it’s not his wallet”.

Amaya cracks her knuckles individually. Crick. Crick. Crack. Pop!

She clutches her pick, which she’ll never dispose of even though it’s worn and chipped beyond recognition. She plays a random chord and then begins playing a song that starts with that chord. It’s an exercise her teacher taught her to help her practice more music. Now, she’s playing “Composure”, by Real Friends. She knows these lyrics, but she also knows she’ll cry if she tries to sing them. Amaya always thinks about--and avoids--what will make her cry most. There is nothing she hates more than crying because nothing scares her more than vulnerability.

When she finishes the song, Amaya is sniffling. She puts her guitar down and sits up. She gets up off the floor and crosses her room to the door. The knob is new, which is unusual for this house. Amaya has never seen her parents buy anything new.

Amaya walks down the hallway, past pictures of her family smiling happily. She opens the bathroom door and turns on the water to the bathtub, her mind foggy. She sinks slowly into the water, as if in slow motion. She closes her eyes and submerges her head.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

The water starts to suffocate her, but she stays under until she reaches thirty. When she comes up, she’s dizzy, and black dots have appeared all around her. She raises one arm and reaches out to catch a dot, but it fades, along with all the others. Amaya lies in the bathtub. She wants it to comfort her, but it is dirty and unwelcoming. The water doesn’t help her either. It only makes her want to curl up and be dry in Nana’s arms.

I need to stop, Amaya thinks. She hums “Composure” to distract herself.

After a while, the water grows cold. Amaya pulls the plug out of the drain. The chain cuts her palm, but she stays in the tub until all of the water is gone.

She waits a few more minutes still. Her hand is only bleeding slightly, and her thoughts are elsewhere. Even Amaya doesn’t know exactly where her thoughts are going. The universe is shifting too much for Amaya to truly focus on anything for too long.

Amaya gets out of the tub as slowly as she got in. She pays no attention to the bathmat or the note her mother left on the mirror to remind her to “always dry on the mat, even if you have to use the bathroom”. Amaya holds the towel to cover up her private areas and walks back to her room without drying off. She tracks water throughout the house. She knows that Mom hates this and that today is not a good day to bother her, but she also wants to have an argument with Mom so she can distract herself from everything else.

Amaya’s mom has laid out the dress they got for Amaya from Good Will. It’s a little big, but Amaya doesn’t mind. The extreme revulsion she feels towards the dress is the least of her worries today. Amaya puts the dress on. She looks horrible in it, of course. She doesn’t look good in baggy clothes. But as usual, she ignores her sense of dread, fights back tears, and leaves her room.

Mom and Dad are downstairs. Dad looks vexed, Mom looks concerned. Normally, Dad looks concerned and Mom looks vexed. All through breakfast, they avoid talking directly to Amaya. Amaya doesn’t know how to feel, so she focuses on the butter. It swirls in thick, creamy layers. It’s shiny. It’s beautiful. The most beautiful thing today. It even outshines Mom, and she’s always flawless.

Amaya doesn’t eat much. Even when Dad tells her to eat because food is the best way to fortify oneself, Amaya only pokes meekly at her breakfast and thinks about how weird it is that butter goes on almost every breakfast meal, except for cereal.

In the car, Amaya wishes she had her guitar with her. It’s the only thing left that brings Amaya comfort. She picks at the rubber seal on the window and peers out at the trees as they fly by. It occurs to her that she’s actually the one flying by and leaving the trees behind, but she still feels it’s the other way around. The car passes under a bridge as a train speeds overtop. For a brief moment, Amaya’s ears are filled with the steady clacking of the train on the tracks above, but then they’ve left the train in the distance as well.

It takes almost an hour to get there. The whole way, Amaya looks at the speech she wrote on her phone last night. She hates every last word in the speech, because it’s too raw, too personal. Nothing scares Amaya more that vulnerability, not even living without Nana to guide her.

Mom pulls the car into the parking lot. The car sputters, angry at Mom do making it drive on the highway over a mountain. One by one, Amaya and her parents clamber out of the car. Amaya comes last. She adjusts her belt and prays her dress isn’t so big that her aunts feel the need to comment on it. The sun bakes the three of them on their short walk into the church.

The church is already packed with people. Some of them Amaya knows, some of them she doesn’t. All of them know Nana, though. Or at least, they all take turns standing over her and telling her how much they love her. Amaya is the only one who doesn’t talk to Nana. She can’t stand to see her in such a state.

The ceremony starts and streams of tears rain down most people’s cheeks, only to be soaked up by tissues and handkerchiefs. Amaya sits still, determined to hold back tears. Then the minister calls Amaya up, and she walks robotically to the podium.

She stands in front of a church full of people she’s never met. Her fingers are shaking, yearning for the familiar feel of guitar strings. Everyone watches her expectantly, and she clams up. Breathing slowly, Amaya begins to calm herself. You can do it, she thinks. Nana has prepared you for this.

With great effort, she opens her mouth and begins to speak. She finds that she doesn’t need her guitar to do so after all. She doesn’t even need Nana either, not really, but Nana is urging her on anyway. 

“My grandmother is crazy,” Amaya begins. “She is crazy and wonderful and chaotic and beautiful, and has had more true loves than anyone else here. All of our lives will be changed from this day on because Nana’s role in them will change. But she won’t cease to exist at all. As she used to say, ‘there’s been a shift in the universe—’”

Amaya stops. Her heart pounds and she realizes that’s she’s crying. Peering down from the podium, she can see Nana and all her loved ones. She’s embarrassed. But she has to finish. She knows that nobody can inspire people like Nana can. Nobody can comfort people like Nana can.

“‘—but the universe has not begun to disappear,’” Amaya finishes, cutting the rest of her speech.

She exhales, and her whole body seems to shake with anxiety and a pang of overwhelming sadness. She steps away from the podium, down the two little steps that separate the minister from everyone else. As she passes Nana, she brushes her cheek gently. Nana doesn’t return the gesture. She never will again.

When Amaya sits down, she buries her face in Mom’s chest and cries silently. Silently but freely. For the first time ever, she feels open. It’s scary, but it’s liberating. So she stains Mom’s dress with her tears, because there’s been another shift in the universe.